Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
by paperbkryter
Summary: Repressed memories from childhood return to Dean in his dreams, with dire consequences when they are revealed to Sam.


Special Agent Henricksen's dress shoes beat out a sharp rhythm upon the tile floor as he strode purposely down a long, dim hallway. His partner, who was actually below him in rank, followed at a respectful distance. Henricksen was in a foul, foul, mood and it was best not to rattle the beehive.

A pair of doors barred their progress at the end of the hall, but only for a second. Henricksen pushed through them without missing a stride. They banged open, and swung shut behind him again. He snapped a question at the man sitting behind a nearby desk. After the reply he wasted no time in getting where he needed to be.

The medical examiner stood close by, casually observing with her arms crossed over her chest as the FBI agent jerked back first one sheet and then the other.

"God - DAMMIT!"

"Something wrong?"

Hendricksen turned on the medical examiner like a pit bull on a poodle. He even barked like one. "Cause of death?"

She shrugged elaborately. "Beats the hell out of me."

The special agent's dark face darkened further. "You don't know? Are you telling me you don't know?"

"I don't know." The doctor shrugged again. "There's a knife wound on one, recently healed, but not a mark on the other."

"Toxicology?"

"Clean. No drugs, no alcohol. Nothing."

Hendricksen scowled. "Look. I don't care if you have to dissect those two into itty bitty pieces the size of a postage stamp, I want to know what killed them."

"Natural causes," the coroner said bluntly. "That's what's going down on my report buddy and I don't give a damn what you say."

"Young men in their twenties do not die of natural causes."

"Oh, so now _you're_ a medical examiner?"

"Do you value your job?"

"Are you threatening me?"

"Damn skippy."

"You know what, I don't care who you work for, get the hell out of my morgue!"

There was a momentary stand-off. She didn't back down, infuriating the special agent even further.

Henricksen finally turned on his heel and abruptly headed for the door, muttering curses under his breath all the way down the hall.

"Damn you Dean Winchester, damn you to Hell."

* * *

The truth comes to him in dreams he can barely remember upon waking. Consciousness finds him sweating, shaking, and sometimes sobbing with tears in his eyes. He lays back down with a shudder. 

Some nights he glances over to the other bed and sees Sam sleeping. Sam sleeps on his back, always has, but now Dean finds it unnerving. He lays there too still, too quiet, as if he were dead and Dean waits anxiously until he sees his brother's chest gently rise and fall again. The demon had said if Dean tried to monkey around with the terms of their agreement Sam would drop dead.

Drop dead.

The words suggest suddenness. Dean doesn't trust demons so he waits and watches until Sam takes a breath, reassuring himself she hasn't gone back on her word.

Sometimes he'll roll over to see Sam hunched over the laptop, obviously doing research as he pauses to jot down a note on a pad of motel stationery. Sam doesn't notice Dean watching him. It is on those nights Dean finds it easiest to close his eyes and go back to sleep. _Everything is fine_, he would tell himself. _We're here, we're alive, Sammy's lookin' for our next gig. _He would go back to sleep and the dreams would be forgotten.

It is on other nights that Dean wakes from his nightmares wondering if he isn't still dreaming. The sense of fear and anxiety follow him into consciousness. Those feelings remain with him too as he turns his head to find Sam. On those nights Sam watches him from the darkness, sitting in a chair on the other side of the room. The lights are out and the television is silent. Dean swears he sees flames flickering in his brother's eyes and wonders if they are from past or future. Are the flames a reflection of the fire that killed their mother, or are they prophecy? More importantly, why are they there at all? The demon is dead. Sam swears his abilities died with it.

Dean isn't so sure. Demons lie, he knows it. He has no reason to believe the demon's words: _"Are you sure what you brought back is one hundred percent Sam?"_

No. Dean isn't sure. He's seen revenants before and from zombie to vampire they are never quite right, never what they had been before. Stephen King hit the nail on the head with _Pet Semetary_. Dean sometimes wonders if the horror writer isn't secretly a Hunter, or if he knows a few. His depictions of the supernatural are often startlingly accurate.

Sam isn't a zombie, nor a vampire, nor anything out of a Stephen King story. He's perfectly normal ninety-nine percent of the time - ninety-nine percent, not one hundred. Wrapped up in that one percent are lies and deception, impatience, intolerance and a disturbing willingness to kill that was definitely not there before. Sam kills quickly and thoroughly, seeming to relish making things as violent and bloody as possible. Dean sees in his eyes a darkness, an uncaring, that does not belong to _his_ Sammy. It seems as if life no longer means anything to him. The only life Sam now values is Dean's and Dean wonders if it isn't just because of the debt between them. If that debt didn't exist, would Sam care if Dean lived or died?

Dean doesn't like the answer. He wonders what Sam would say if he knew what was in Dean's dreams. Maybe he already knew. Was that flicker of light in his eyes as he watched Dean sleep an indication of power? Could he see into Dean's head and know his dreams?

He doesn't know for sure if his dreams really are repressed memory but they feel too familiar. The emotions are there to be sure, and they were always, without fail, almost exactly the same night after night. They had begun after the demon died. Dean doesn't know if that is what triggered them or not.

In his dream memory Mary Winchester had an affair. Dean was there. He saw everything. John would go to work and Mary would tell Dean to go play in his room, that she had a headache and was going to lay down for a while. She locked herself in her bedroom and that was where _he_ would visit.

It was the voices that drew Dean out of his room and into the hallway outside his mother's bedroom. He would hear her talking, and a man's voice reply. He thought it was his father at first, but John would have never made Mary cry like this man did. Dean wanted to go in the room and tell the man not to make his mommy cry. The door was locked, and he was too scared. The man never raised his voice, yet the soft, soothing tone struck Dean as false and frightening. When Mary finally emerged she always looked disheveled, and there were tears staining her cheeks. "I'm okay, baby," she'd say, and she would be for the rest of the day.

Mary had a secret only Dean knew. She wanted another baby, but the doctor told her something got messed up when she had Dean, and she couldn't. She didn't tell John. She didn't tell anyone. Dean knew because he was a little pitcher with big ears. He went with her to the doctor, and he understood what the man said. He was smart, Dean. His preschool teachers said so. He knew his ABC's and could already read and write. He wanted to be a teacher when he grew up.

Grown up Dean remembers this while he's dreaming. He feels remorse for what could have been, and more than a little bit of jealousy. Sam is the smart one. Sam is the one who went to college. Dean drinks too much, fools around too much, and isn't very smart. He feels like he's living a lie. It's not...

Fair?

It's not fair to blame Sammy anyway. He didn't ask to be born.

Dean dreams of the last day the man behind the closed door comes to visit. He almost knocked on the door that day because he heard sounds he didn't understand. He heard Mary begin to cry much harder than she ever had before. He heard her whimper. Something had hurt her. Trembling with fear he stood outside her bedroom door too scared to do anything and wondering if he shouldn't call his father home from work. Dean knew the number but he didn't call.

When Mary came out again Dean was crying in his room, upset by his inaction. She comforted him and asked what was the matter but he couldn't tell her. He was only four and didn't have the words to describe the wrongness he felt. Mary held him tight, kissing his hair. That was when she told him he would have a baby brother.

Sam wasn't what was wrong. Sam was right, and he made everyone happy. He smiled and cooed and played with his toes, blew spit bubbles and giggled when Dean tickled him. This Dean remembers outside of the dreams. Sam was a good, happy baby, until the night of the fire when everything changed.

In Dean's dream it was Sam's crying that woke him up. Sam rarely cried at night, and certainly not as loudly as he had _that_ night. Dean instinctively recognized the sound of fear in the baby's voice and got out of bed to investigate. At his doorway, however, he stopped in his tracks, suddenly assaulted by the stench of rotten eggs coming from the hallway. He cringed back as the dark outline of a man passed. The man made no sound as he walked down the hall, and Dean too had been very quiet, but suddenly the man turned and looked at him.

Dean saw the glow of yellow eyes and heard the deep voice of the behind-the-door man. The voice was in his head. He didn't hear it with his ears.

"_It's past your bedtime, kid."_

An invisible hand shoved him back into his room. The door slammed shut. Dean heard the lock click. He pulled frantically at the doorknob but could not get the door open again. Trapped and alone he began to panic, terror clamping down on his ability to shout for help. His heart raced. His mind frantically searched for a solution to his predicament.

A headache started building in his temples. It felt as if something had wrapped itself around his head and was squeezing it too tightly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it as if he were just about to blow out the candles on a birthday cake. When he let the breath go he thought about pushing the thing off his head.

The headache vanished.

The door opened.

Without stopping to wonder how the door had suddenly unlocked itself, Dean hurried down the hall to Sam's room. The man was in there. Dean flattened himself against the wall outside the door and peeked inside. He could feel his heart beating hard against his ribs. Would the man hear it?

The man had his back toward the door. One arm was raised above the crib. The man's voice was low and whispering, his words unfamiliar, but the tone reminded Dean of something he'd heard before. His dreaming self realizes that the words are Latin. They are in the form of a baptismal rite, or a christening. As a child Dean had been to a christening. He had vaguely understood what was going on. He had also sensed this was not as benign, a feeling confirmed by the unhappy squawk Sammy uttered as blood dripped down upon his lips.

Dean stood frozen in place as the man turned his head over his shoulder and pinned the boy down with a sulfurous gaze. Visions rippped through Dean's mind, visions of himself screaming, his eyes nothing but bloody sockets as he is torn apart by shadows shaped like wolves. He would remember none of the preceding events later, not until the man, the demon, dies at Dean's own hand and the dreams begin. At this point in the dreaming true memory is married with dream memory, and Dean realizes all of it is the truth.

He hides in the bathroom, squeezing himself back behind the toilet as far as he can go, convincing himself the dogs had been nothing but a dream, yet terrified just the same. He claps his hands over his ears as he hears Mary screaming. His body shakes uncontrollably. Footsteps pound up the stairs and down the hall. John's voice shouts for Mary. There is a moment of silence, then an unearthly roaring sound, a shout, and the sound of the baby shrieking in terror.

The baby's cries drive Dean from his hiding place. He scurries out into the hallway. Smoke is curling out of Sammy's room. Through the open doorway Dean can see flames swirling around upon the ceiling, and in the center of them his mother's face. Her hair burns. Her skin and flesh begin to blacken and curl away from the bone.

John bursts out of the room, thrusting the baby into Dean's arms. Dean barely registers what his father says. It is instinct more than anything that drives him down the hall to the stairs where he descends as quickly as he possibly can. His arms ache from the weight of the squirming, screaming baby. It is hard to juggle his burden and unlock the front door. His fingers slip on the doorknob. He squeezes Sam tight, afraid of dropping him. Sweat drips down his back as waves of intense heat ripple down the stairs. Smoke chokes him, making him cough. Looking back he sees the flames consuming the hallway and hears his father crying, "Mary! Mary!"

Adult Dean curses reticent doors. Child Dean does not repeat his earlier trick, but instead wipes the sweat from his palm on his pajamas and tries the knob again. It turns. The door opens. Outside the air is cold but Dean doesn't even register it. He bolts through the door and down the porch steps, running across the dew-slick lawn, whispering frantically to the whimpering baby, "It's okay now, Sammy."

In his waking memory Dean doesn't fully recall what he saw when he turns back toward the window where flames dance along the glass. What he does remember are the curtains fluttering in an unnatural breeze before they too catch fire and begin to burn. He sees the window glass bowing outward as the intense heat warps it out of shape. Blotted from his memory, however, is the sight of the dark man standing within the flames. A similar vision comes to him years later, at a house in Salvation, Iowa. He can now understand the feeling of deja vu that had swept over him seeing the demon there in the flames, and why he had nearly punched Sam in the nose when his brother tried to return to the house.

Nor does he remember the voice coming to him one more time, again without words. This time the dark man is laughing at him. Dean knows then it isn't over. It will never be over.

Never.

Something inside his head snaps. His memories grow dim, and twist up into knots. He's confused, disoriented, wondering why he's standing outside in the cold holding the baby. His adult mind realizes it is shock, urges himself to snap out of it, as if remembering then would change the now. He sees himself standing there unmoving, staring up at the flames as if hypnotized.

Strong hands suddenly scoop him up and they are moving. There is a loud bang, and the incongruously pretty tinkling of broken glass falling from the shattered window. John carries them away from the house to the curb. The wail of sirens pierces the air, bright red light flashes strobe-like across the sky. John asks him if he's hurt. Dean's voice is gone. He can only shake his head. No. He's not hurt, and neither is Sammy. John wipes the smear of blood from the baby's forehead but not before Dean sees it. Drops of their mother's blood had run together to form the rough shape of an upside-down cross.

History repeats itself twenty-two years later when Dean bursts into a burning Palo Alto apartment and drags his brother out of the flames. Seconds before Sam raises an arm to wipe it away, Dean sees the blood smeared on his forehead, blood in the shape of an upside down cross.

The dream ends the same way it always does. His last memory is of smooth, cool metal beneath his hand. They sit on the hood of his father's car, watching the firemen fighting the fire. Dean glances down into the shiny, black surface of the car's long hood expecting to see his own reflection there. Instead he sees flames, and within them the snarling countenance of a demonic dog.

Dean gasps, the Hell Hound lunges at his face, but before the jaws close around his throat, his eyes open.

Sam is sitting at the table. The palm of his hand rests upon the butt of a large hunting knife. The knife's sharp point digs into the wooden table top. As Dean watches, Sam idly moves the knife around in circles, severely marring the top of the table. His eyes are slightly hooded. His thoughts obviously focused elsewhere.

Dean knows Sam has learned the truth. No full blood demon could have gotten past Samuel Colt's defenses and opened the Hell Gate – that's what Bobby said. Sam knew who could. It had been Jake, and if Jake was something other than human...

He may not have done well in school, nor gone to college, but Dean is more than capable of adding two and two together. Sitting up he reaches for his watch lying on the bedside table. It is nearly dawn. He swings his legs off the bed and runs his fingers through his hair, yawning.

"Made coffee," Sam says.

Dean thinks Sam makes crappy coffee but doesn't say so. Instead he shuffles toward the room's kitchenette and the ancient coffee maker. A stack of styrofoam cups sits on the counter nearby. Dean pulls one off the top and fills it, wondering how long it has been since Sam made the stuff. It is dark, with an oily sheen on top, lukewarm and very strong, just like the truck shop brew Dean usually drinks. It's probably the best coffee Sam has ever made, at least in his brother's opinion.

The compliment, however, is withheld. Dean sits quietly on the edge of his bed, sipping the coffee and swallowing down yet another yawn.

Sam snaps his hand closed over the hilt of the knife and jerks it out of the tabletop. The throw is fast and hard. It sinks the knife deeply into the wall just above the television. Sam quietly picks at the scar the knife has left on the table as if he had not just had a violent outburst. Dean drinks his coffee, his heart pounding despite his calm appearance, realizing that with just a slight alteration in trajectory Sam's knife throw could have easily killed him.

"You've been dreaming of the fire," Sam says.

Dean shrugs. "So?"

"Why?"

"Dunno. Are there donuts?"

"No."

Dean reaches for the room service menu and frowns. "Five bucks for scrambled eggs?"

"Dean."

His name is spoken in Sam's "can we be serious" voice. Dean looks up at him and puts the menu aside. "What?"

"It's not over."

Dean feels his back stiffen as Sam echoes the dream. He struggles to keep his voice steady. "What's not over?"

"The demon did something to me..."

"The demon is dead," Dean interrupts.

"But it hasn't changed anything. I had a vision last night."

"Of what?"

"Your death," Sam says quietly. He is sitting on the other bed, his eyes downcast. "She will make you suffer," he whispers. "The hounds don't kill you, but they hurt you. You'll die two weeks later of blood poisoning."

Dean sighs. "Great." He sees Sam is expecting more. "What else do you want me to say, Sam?"

Sam hesitates before he delivers another blow. "Before you die," he said. "You tell me about the dreams."

The dreams. _The_ dream. Dean rubs his face with his hand, wishing Sam could have scheduled this conversation for sometime after Dean has showered and eaten breakfast. He doesn't make any denial. "Dreams are just dreams, Sammy."

"Like my visions are just visions?" Sam stands up and goes to the window, moving the curtain aside just slightly so he could peer outside. "I lied, Dean."

"About?"

"The demon showed me more. It showed me part of what happened that night – not much – but Mom recognized it. When she came into the nursery, she recognized it, just before it killed her." Sam turns back around but remains by the window. "It didn't really reveal anything, just created more questions."

"They're good at that."

"You know the truth. You know what happened. You know about Mom. Why would you keep that from me?"

"I'm not keeping anything from..."

"DON'T LIE TO ME!"

Dean doesn't recognize the man who rushes toward him with clenched fists. The angry, twisted face is a mask. This isn't his Sammy. This is the cold hearted killer. This is the one percent. He waits until it is gone before he makes any reply. It is Sam who slumps down onto the other bed again, holding his head in his hand.

"God. Dean. I'm sorry."

"I haven't told you, " Dean answers abruptly. "Because I don't want it to be true."

Sam raises his head. His eyes are red, brimming with tears that have not yet fallen. "Is it?"

"True?"

"Yeah."

Dean meets his brother's eye. "Yeah," he says softly. "I think it is."

"Dad isn't my real father."

"No, he isn't."

"The demon is my father."

"The demon is your father...and Mom's."

This was obviously not expected. Sam's vision, then, had not shown him everything, or else the dying Dean did not tell him everything.

"Oh, God." Sam stands up again, this time pacing nervously back and forth at the foot of his bed. "God. That's why I was its favorite. It had more invested..."

"It was supposed to be me," Dean says, and it's all he needs to say.

Sam nods. "The firstborn. The others were all either the older sibling, or only children. Andy was the exception, but his brother was his twin."

Dean closes his eyes and sighs. "She screwed it all up when she fell in love with Dad." Memories assault him; a picture show of them roll by beneath his eyelids. He hears the voices from behind the closed door. "It was pissed. They fought a lot before it..."

_Just say it. How worse can it get? _

His eyes open. "It raped her."

"Dean..."

"I heard it," Dean snorts softly. "I was four. I didn't know what it meant..."

"Don't take the blame for this, Dean. Please, don't take the blame for this."

Dean gets up and walks away from his brother, hating him at that moment for making the memories real. "I stink. I'm going to take a shower."

He showers for a long time. He feels dirty. He runs the water hot and scrubs himself all over – twice - as if he can wash away the part of him that isn't human. That's how he feels. He can't imagine what is going through his brother's mind. When Dean leaves the bathroom nearly an hour later he doesn't feel much better. Sam is still there, sitting on the bed, looking pale and exhausted. Neither one of them say anything for a while.

"Dean."

Dean looks up from his packing. "Yeah?"

"What Dad said, about saving me..."

"I did save you, Sammy."

"No," Sam whispers. "I don't think you did. I don't think you can. Dean, I can't fight it anymore. The anger, the hate..."

The shirt Dean was folding is put aside. He comes over and sits on the edge of his bed, facing Sam once again. "Sam, look..."

"I'm beyond saving, Dean, but you're not." Sam closes his eyes and winces as if he were in pain. "I went there while you were in the shower," he says softly. He opens his eyes. They beg for forgiveness.

Dean's chest tightens. "What? Went where?" There is something wrong. "Sam?"

"The crossroads..."

Sam collapses forward, sliding slowly off the bed. Dean is there to catch him and ease him to the floor where he sags heavily into Dean's arms. His head lolls against Dean's chest. His eyes roll back so only the whites show, and his body grows cold, and then colder with each passing second. Dean can't revive him. Sam has passed beyond the ability to see or hear.

Time was repeating itself again. They had been here before.

"Sammy!" Dean peers over his brother's shoulder, praying he would not see what he knew would be there. "No! Sam, please..."

Blood spreads slowly out from the center of Sam's back looking for all the world like the crimson petals of a flower. The stab wound has reopened. Sam's spine is severed, his lungs are filling with suffocating blood, just like before. Somehow he had gone and screwed up Dean's bargain, freeing his brother but condemning himself to death in the process.

Dean grits his teeth. "No. Dammit! No, Sam. No. You're not dying this time. You're not dying this time!"

He presses one hand down over Sam's wound. The other holds Sam's head close to his cheek. Dean's eyes close as he hunts down the dream memory. He was locked in his room and could not get out. He wanted out badly. He wants Sam to live just as badly.

A demon can't resurrect someone from the dead unless a deal is made. Beneath his hands Dean can feel Sam just barely clinging to life. He might not be able to resurrect, but he might be able to heal. The power is there, he can feel that too, and he reaches out to embrace the quarter of himself where it resides. He no longer cares where that power comes from. He cares only for what it can do.

There will be no settling for anything less than one hundred percent this time. He wants _his_ Sammy to live.

Dean lets the power build. He feels as if his head is going to explode, but he holds on until he can hold on no longer. He lets it go, pushing the power through his own body and into Sam's. His hands grow warm as heat and healing spread throughout them both. Blind faith propels it, hope guides it. Dean doesn't know much about anatomy, how the body works, he clings only to a single desire.

_Live. Live. Live. Dammit Sam! _

He groans as pain clamps down around his head. His memories surge up to swallow his awareness.

They are running from the fire out into the front yard. Dean looks up at the shadowy form within the flames as he kneels in the cold, damp grass outside. It's laughing at him. They'll never escape from it. They'll never be free.

The demon is not dead. It lives on in the blood running through their veins.

_NO!_

His strength wavers. The warmth starts to fade immediately, the threads of power that feed it begin to unravel. Dean doesn't bother to hold on to it. He can't. The demon is out there waiting for their return. Dean struggles with indecision. He needs help. He needs Sam.

_What do I do? Sammy, tell me what to do!_

Cold starts to spread on the heels of the dissipating warmth. It creeps up through Dean's chest, making him gasp. The power is gone, _all_ of his reserves have been tapped out. He can feel his physical body growing weaker. Dean realizes he has to let Sam go before his failed attempt to heal kills them both. He has to let go - break the connection he has forged between them.

His decision is made between the faltering beats of his heart.

_No, you son-of-a-bitch. I'm ending this. I'm ending it right now._

Dean tightens his arms around his brother and buries his face into Sam's shoulder as he slumps over into the side of the bed. He's too weak to hold his own body upright, let alone his own and Sam's too. There's no way he can get up off of the floor. He lays there shivering. Sam is dragging him down to his death and he knows it, but he will not let his brother go there without him. Not this time.

"Cold, Sammy. I'm so cold..." Dean closes his eyes, his voice fading to a mere breath. "So cold."

It's November. The nights are growing colder, the scent of snow is in the air. A small glowing ember rests in the palm of Dean's hand. It is warm, yet it does not burn him, and as he watches it in awe, the amber light at its center flickers and dies. He spreads his fingers, letting the ash float away on the wind until it is gone. The fire is out. They are safe.

Dean holds the baby close to his chest and begins to rock slowly back and forth on his knees. "It's okay, Sammy," he whispers. "It'll be okay now. I'm going to take care of you. I'll always take care of you."

A bright light suddenly catches his attention. He grows still, staring at it fearfully. The light comes from within the house, but it is not the flickering orange light from a fire. It is the light from a lamp.

There is a woman standing on the porch. Her long golden hair flutters in the breeze. She wraps her arms around herself and shivers – she's wearing nothing but a nightgown. He hears her voice calling out to him. "Dean? Come inside, baby. It's cold out there." When Dean does not come she turns, and addresses someone inside the house. "John... help me. I can't get him to come in."

"Come on, dude. It's bed time."

It's the deeper voice that brings Dean to his feet, gets him moving toward the light. "Daddy?"

"Dean!"

Dean increases his pace, giving his baby brother a happy little squeeze. It was all a bad dream. That's all it was. There was no fire, no scary dark man. It was only a dream and it is all over now, for ever and always.

"We're coming, Daddy! We're coming!"

* * *

_Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occured to you that you don't go on forever. It must have been shattering, stamped into one's memory. And yet, I can't remember it._

Tom Stoppard, from the original** -** _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_


End file.
